


Unimaginable Happiness

by WhereDoYouWantMe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 06:55:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16236506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhereDoYouWantMe/pseuds/WhereDoYouWantMe
Summary: John Watson is leaving to get married and Sherlock is there to see him off. Or, more accurately, Sherlock realises that he is in love with John Watson, and that they have run out of time.





	Unimaginable Happiness

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that you enjoy this, because it took something out of me to write it.

Sherlock feels sick when they both bustle through the barriers and up the stairs, sliding out into the sheltered station and disappearing into the crowd. He still feels sick when they emerge again and John places his suitcase down beside him, cheeks puffed out as he checks the number on the sign above him. 

Nine minutes.

Nine minutes to say goodbye, it seems. Sherlock has bid farewell to many in less, obviously, but this is John. And for the life of him, he can't work out how to summarise John Watson in nine minutes. 

But now Sherlock thinks about it, everything seems to happen in nines. They met on the twenty ninth of January, John has been living with him at Baker Street for just over nine years and Sherlock is able to name ninety things that he loves about John from the top of his head this very moment. But Sherlock won't tell John that, because that's his secret. And John's leaving to get married, anyway, so there isn't much a surprise like that can do other than garner too much sympathy and ruin their already strained friendship. Sherlock tries to delete that information from John's file but it won't leave. Not that, not that blasted woman's perfume and 32 Kensington Road, it won't leave. Sherlock tried for just over an hour the night before and when his mind palace locked the door to John's room, Sherlock went to bed and lay down with the light still on.

On the cab ride here, they had discussed unimaginable happiness. Well, John asked lots of questions and Sherlock in his usual cold way. John wondered if he had ever felt it, and Sherlock said that he hadn’t which was completely true. Sherlock thinks that John wanted to feel that with Mary. Which was fine. Because Sherlock hoped that they would both feel it in the end. 

John is wearing his black jacket with the patches on the shoulders and elbows today. It's a particular favourite of Sherlock's because it was what he was wearing when the first met and he hopes that he's memorised every stitch of that jacket because he can't do it now, not in nine minutes an definitely not when he still can't get into John's room. So instead, Sherlock works out the temperature of his mouth by the small puffs of his breath in the cold February air. Every exhalation fogs the air with a drifting, ephemeral white cloud that barely dissipates before the next warm breath condenses into another misty plume. Sherlock doesn’t need to memorise John’s breathing pattern because that is tucked neatly away in his room as well but Sherlock watches just in case, because a moments worth of data is better than none at all. 

“Bit odd, this.” John mutters, drawing Sherlock from his reverie and back into the chilly morning. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say so he nods and John turns back to the tracks, watching for the train that definitely will not be there yet, but suddenly the air between them freezes. After another moment, John nods to himself. “Leaving Baker Street.” Sherlock wonders if John is saying this for Sherlock’s benefit or for his own. A train glides to a stop behind them and several seconds later, fifty three people attempt to pile through the same door at once and there is one cry for ‘mummy’ but Sherlock hardly thinks it important and so looks directly ahead, to the derelict block of flats in front of him that had been like that for four years. And, if he strains his eyes, he can tell where Baker Street is from here. “Leaving all of this behind.” This time when John speaks he is most definitely scolding him for something and it isn’t until Sherlock looks down that he realises that John had probably been speaking for a minute. 

Because if he speaks, he might say something he shouldn’t, Sherlock nods once again, glad that he had already flicked up his coat collar to hide the deep flush on the tips of his collar bones. John just sighs and the timer slides down to four minutes. 

“You’ll need to remember to sleep, of course, I’ll have Mrs Hudson drug your tea if you don’t, and god knows you’re incapable of doing it yourself.” Sherlock zones out once again as John rubs grime from the door of the taxi off of his fingers, spouting some sort of boring nonsense that Sherlock is deleting as soon as he hears it. 

In the past few months, something has changed between them. Sherlock can’t look at John without remembering that he left John, not the other way around, and that he is lucky to have what he gets. That doesn’t stop the flare of jealously and well disguised hatred every time he sees Mary; Sherlock doesn’t know if that feeling will ever fade. But the change means something more than that, and Sherlock wonders if it has anything to do with the marriage or whether something had happened to John that he just hasn’t deduced yet. The answer doesn’t come, not even when Sherlock tries to summon it with every last ounce of strength in his body, no deduction pops up around John’s head. There is no loud exclamation from the speakers, no proclamation of truth. Just John sighing loudly when he realises that Sherlock hasn’t been listening, and then scolding him for something that Sherlock doesn’t hear. One thing that he is sure of though, and what he has been sure of since John announced that he was moving out, if that he doesn’t want him to go. 

He hates the thought of John not being there when he returns from a case; he hates the idea of someone else touching his John. His wonderful, brave, oblivious John who can’t be half as clever as Sherlock thinks he is if he can’t see the detective tearing himself apart. Or maybe he can and just chooses not to care, like Sherlock chooses not to notice if John and Mary have had intercourse after John comes back to the flat late at night. That, he thinks, is something he will definitely not miss. The absence of that will be bliss. 

But John is standing there, freshly shaved with a meagre suitcase of possessions until they can organise for a van to bring the rest. John had asked Sherlock if he wanted to keep the chair, to which Sherlock went off in a strop and didn’t come out until John ordered Thai. They both decided it should stay at Baker Street without broaching the subject a second time. Sherlock can remember the disappointed yet vaguely hopeful look on John’s face when he tells Sherlock over dinner that he will truly miss him. And the adventures, of course, because that was what made his life worth living again. Sherlock had blushed, he remembers, but had brushed the comment to one side and hoped to whatever god there may be that the lie wasn’t as obvious to John as it was to himself. Apparently not, as John had settled back down and hadn’t spoken a word for the rest of the meal. 

 

Sherlock had played the violin. He had played everything that John had loved, every piece that John had listened to and praised, which was admittedly a very large list, and he had played it with emotion that made his fingers sting. He only stopped when a very tired looking John stepped out from the kitchen and, in a very tight voice, asked Sherlock if he could just quieten down a little bit. Sherlock nodded dutifully, and John padded upstairs again, the usual sounds of John getting ready no comfort in this situation. So Sherlock had sank onto the sofa and pretended to think whilst he tried not to cry. And when John came back down to brush his teeth; Sherlock closed his eyes until John was gone. 

“Sherlock, please,” John’s eyes are wide and sad, something soft and pleading in them that tugs at Sherlock’s heart. “We don’t have a lot of time and…” John breaks off, the tell-tale clenching and unclenching of his fists between his thighs screaming at Sherlock. So the detective just nods at John and kicks at the floor beneath his oxfords. “I’d rather spend this time with all of your attention, not just a bit of it.” He mutters and Sherlock does his best not to scoff. Impossible, he thinks, you always have my attention, John. But John doesn’t know that his door is locked and Sherlock doesn’t really want to tell him so he remains silent. 

“I’m sorry John,” The smaller man looks up at him and Sherlock sighs. “I fear that I have made the last few days difficult for you, if that is the case…” 

Sherlock doesn’t get to finish because John starts shaking his head and mumbling. “That isn’t what I mean Sherlock and you know it.” But Sherlock doesn’t know it. 

“I’m sorry?” 

The space between John’s eyes creases and his face tightens as if in physical pain before he lets out a long breath and nods to the ground. “I’m going to miss you is all, being gone.” John seems to realise what he says when Sherlock flinches ever so slightly and he’s barely intelligible when he starts again. “That isn’t what I mean, Sherlock, it’s just that…” 

This time it is Sherlock’s turn to cut him off, cool and collected, with glassy eyes turned back to the derelict buildings beyond. “It is perfectly understandable John. You are getting married and therefore our contact will be cut off. You will spend your time with your fiancée and the inevitable baby you will have together so you will no longer be attending the cases we have previously solved together. I’m not a child, I understand the basic fundamentals of, how do you say it,” He raises his eyebrows and puts on a mocking voice. “’Drifting apart’.” 

John sighs again and Sherlock wonders if that sigh is purely for him judging by the amount of times that he has heard it. “God, you sound just like your brother.” Sherlock shoots him a look that is entirely disgusted. 

“Don’t be so vulgar.” The look that John sends back is from beneath raised eyebrows. 

“Then don’t be such a spoilt twat.” Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond to that because he is, indeed, a spoilt twat. When John sees this he smirks and looks back to the tracks. “You know, Sherlock, for a genius you are remarkably dim at times.” Sherlock pretends not to scoff. “I lost you once, Sherlock. If you think that I’m going to let you go again then you’re an idiot.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say and he makes a small gasping noise, staring down at John with wide eyes. John simply nods in reply and digs his hands deeper into his pockets. “Try to understand,” There goes that painful expression again. “When I lost you, it was like losing everything.” Of course, like the last three months, John doesn’t look at Sherlock when he speaks and chooses instead to watch his shoes. “Now I’ve got you back, and everything’s settled into place again.” John lets out a grunt and heaves in a deep sigh. “God, that couldn’t have been more clichéd if I had tried, could it?” 

A flock of starlings take off from the building sight and scatter across the morning sky, streaks of black against the clouds. One spreads further from the others, it’s younger and has a smaller build, its wings beating harder and faster than the others to keep up. The birds circle once around the smaller one, spreading out until they form a strand of DNA before curling back in on themselves, closer to the other bird. After a moment, the momentum is gained and it pushes itself up into the sky, trailing up beside the others. There is a distinct thickness in the air and Sherlock knows that it is going to rain soon but most likely not heavily. He would deduce more but he is distracted by the starlings and their lazy loops around each other. 

The problem is, is that Sherlock does understand. He understands perfectly what John is trying so hard to explain because he is feeling that very sensation as they speak. The warmth in his chest when he found out that John is safe, alive and well, albeit with a newer half, and perfectly over him. Of course, it isn’t the greatest of news but beggars can’t be choosers, so Sherlock sticks with that and hopes that, if nothing else, their friendship can be salvaged. And they both work hard on it, harder than they have worked on anything before, because this has to work, there isn’t another option. And all of Sherlock’s work is to be taken apart with the exchanging of sentimental words and bands of gold, one of which is to be secured around John’s finger. Sherlock doesn’t know if he can think of anything so repulsive. It is the same feeling he encountered when John punched the superintendent back before the fall, when he stood up against Irene Adler for him. For the constant tirade against his brother. Sherlock knows the feeling because he has spent the last nine years living it. He doesn’t know if he will be able to stop, and the thought scares him slightly. 

“I understand.” Sherlock whispers, more to himself than to John, but the other man stills hears it anyway and turns to Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

“You do?”

Sherlock nods. “I do.” John looks down at the ground, mouth tipped up at the sides, and nods to himself. There is something inside of Sherlock that forces his lips apart, and he speaks without realising it. “I kept an eye on you. Not all of the time, but once a month, if I could, I would make sure that you were alright. Sometimes I sat in the waiting room at the surgery, I watched whilst you visited my grave and a couple of times I was just across from you on the tube.” Sherlock’s face falls without him realising it. “You never noticed. But that was alright, it was better that way.” 

John looks completely and utterly heartbroken. The sight makes him feel a bit ill because John hasn’t looked so broken since he fell and he doesn’t want to think about that either. He inhales deeply and just stares at Sherlock’s head, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with every breath. “This is a mistake.” 

The words sound like fire from John’s tongue, and their affect is scolding. Sherlock feels burnt by them, his skin tingling under John’s scrutiny. The doctor himself rubs a hand over his face and groans loudly, checking the time. Four minutes. “What on earth are you talking about John?” Sherlock does know what he means, and he is practically nauseas with the excitement of it. John stamps his foot on the floor and then turns to Sherlock, his eyes specked with tears. 

“Tell me now, and tell me straight Sherlock. Am I making a mistake?” 

And how can Sherlock lie to John Watson? “As you know, John, I am not familiar with the fair sex or even romantic entanglement in general…” He doesn’t make it past that sentence, because John grips at his arm so tight that it hurts. 

“Don’t give me that Sherlock, you know me better than anyone.” John’s eyes are sincere, and warm and pleading for Sherlock’s help. So he gives it. 

“I don’t believe that marrying Mary Morstan would be a mistake.” He whispers, throat creaking around her name. 

John blinks and suddenly Sherlock’s noise fills with the smell of smoke and blood. John is lying on the grass, red on his skin and fire on his clothes. Sherlock is screaming for him, but he can’t hear. “Sherlock?” He barely hears it, and the words aren’t coming from John’s mouth. But it is John, he can hear John. He’s right there. The small taps at his face are what bring him out of it, of whatever that was. A memory, Sherlock supposes, of when John was in that bonfire. That was only a few months ago, yet so much has changed. “You there, Sherlock? Lost you for a moment.” John stands in front of him, and there isn’t any blood in his hair or ash on his jacket. He is safe, standing on the platform with a suitcase in his hand. 

Now that Sherlock thinks about it, that black jacket isn’t his favourite anymore. It has started to rain. A plane creeps over the edge of the station roof and Sherlock can’t be bothered to figure out the make.

“Sorry, I just…” Sherlock can’t find the right word, so he simply shrugs but John seems to understand, his face softening, if that is even possible, until Sherlock wonders if he might cry. There is nothing said, but the timer ticks down to two minutes and for once in his life, Sherlock fills the need to fill the silence. “I am not going to pretend that I won’t miss you, John.” The doctor gasps quietly and Sherlock stores the sound in what his brain has labelled ‘John #2’ so that he can remember it for the rest of his life. “You have been a dear friend to me, John. You saw in me what others did not and you have saved my life.” When Sherlock looks down at him, he does so with as much raw emotion as he can handle. “And I am very glad that I met you. I hope that you find your unimaginable happiness.” He holds out his hand, the pale skin poking out at the end of the black leather glove. It shakes between them, gentle at first but steadily increasing when the doctor simply stares. 

Sherlock doesn’t actually realise what John is about to do until the smaller man’s arms are around him, pulling him flush against his body. John’s head falls into his shoulders and if Sherlock hears him crying he doesn’t mention it. “You bloody idiot.” Is just about what he catches. “You absolute idiot Sherlock Holmes.” Then he stands back, hands still gripping at Sherlock’s biceps, his fingers gripping onto the thick wool of the belstaff. 

“We could go somewhere.” Sherlock splutters out and John smiles. The time ticks down to one. “We could move into the country somewhere and keep bees.” 

John’s response is a light chuckle and a shake of his head, though Sherlock can tell that he definitely isn’t rejecting him. The movement is more fond than anything else and it sooths Sherlock’s nerves a little. “Sherlock, you’re entire life is in London, I’m not going to ask you to leave this all behind.” 

“But you are my London, John!” Sherlock groans, because John really is being an idiot. “You’re every street, ever house. You’re the lights and the sounds and the smell after rain. You are the inscription on the third lion that talks about love and you’re the Latin I have burned into my mind from St Pauls. You are every language, every detail. I love knowing you and knowing that I know you,” John’s chin has hit his neck but Sherlock keeps on. “Knowing you is what I want and London is where I need to be, where I want you to be too. A rare thing, I know, but sometimes, just sometimes I-“ Sherlock cuts himself off and slams his fist deep into the pocket of his coat. The plane that he is watching crosses the sky. 

John’s mouth finally closes and it looks like he is about to say something, but something large slips into Sherlock’s view and he finally realises that the train has arrived. One minute later than scheduled. John jumps at the sight of it, hands suddenly by his side rather than on Sherlock and the nausea jumps back at the loss of contact. 

The station hums back to life but the doors haven’t opened yet and something inside of Sherlock is still stupidly trying to convince him that he still has time. That this is one of the moments that are worth fighting for. But when John picks up his suitcase a second later and shares a look with Sherlock, the kind he had when he told Sherlock that he was planning on marrying Mary, Sherlock knows that it is a lost cause. 

“Goodbye, John.” Sherlock murmurs, tugging his hand out of his glove then holding it in front of him. John flinches minutely, the words dragging back something dark from inside of him, and then he takes Sherlock’s hand and shakes it. 

“Goodbye Sherlock.” Then John disappears into the swarm of people and the plane falls out of sight behind a building. He doesn’t see John wander through until he finds a seat, and he most definitely does not see the Doctor hold back a sob. Not when he is so set on stopping his own. The train departs minutes later and leaves with it passengers and cigarette smoke, both twisting around Sherlock until that last remnants of John are gone with the last smell of eggs and Mrs Hudson’s fabric softener. A taxi draws over to the kerb when Sherlock leaves the station and Sherlock climbs in, finding comfort in knowing that if he wants, he can delete John Watson, but finding none whatsoever in knowing that he never will. 

 

His coat lands beside the door, sagging in its own weight as he stumbles past it, crashing over the table and scrabbling out until two palms hit the wood head on. He is shaking so hard the he can barely breathe and it only takes a few moments for his knees to give out, sending him tumbling to the ground. 

Because John is gone. They have run out of chances, this is it. 

 

It takes Sherlock a moment to realise how utterly terrifying that is before he hits his head with the heel of his hand over and over until both his forehead and his palm go numb. “Stupid,” He hisses, head falling back to thump painfully on the wooden leg of the table. “For God’s sakes Holmes, you might as well have admitted that you loved him, for all the good it did you.” Sherlock stares miserably off through the kitchen. “He’s still gone.” The silence that answers him is too loud for his ears. There isn’t anything, no soft humming of John changing upstairs, no toilet flushing, no tell-tale clatter of keys in the lock. Just Mrs Hudson and the radio downstairs. Sherlock absolutely hates it. 

It doesn’t take him long to find his cigarettes, but finding a lighter is harder, so Sherlock uses the stove instead, switching it off by slamming the palm of his hand into the knob. Then he settles down inside of the window, crouching up so that his knees are pulled into his chest and his toes are pushing into the opposite side of the frame. 

He lights the next cigarette by the first, and nearly forgets that he’s smoking it until something bitter and plastic fills his mouth and he realises that he had begun to smoke the filter. Sherlock pushes it into the wallpaper in front of him and slams a fist down on the window beside him, letting out a loud cry because John is gone. There is a bee, right beside the spot on the window that he has just hit, and somewhere in the back of Sherlock’s mind he vaguely labels it as Bombus Lapidarious before the words fade away, blown across the room by the tiny bee’s wings as it takes flight. Sherlock watches it for a moment and then lights a cigarette. 

“You need to come home,” Sherlock says to John’s chair, hatred dripping from his voice. “I couldn’t care less about Mary, John, because you need to come home.” His throat tightens and Sherlock wonders if he is going to vomit, but it disappears with another drag of the cigarette. 

“Good deduction, that.” The voice comes from the kitchen. John appears around the corner, cup of tea in his hand, dressed in jeans and that burgundy cardigan that has always been a secret favourite of Sherlock’s. Sherlock doesn’t move. 

This isn’t John. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock asks, because he isn’t high and he isn’t being tortured so John being there makes no sense. 

Not John snorts like it obvious so Sherlock bristles and takes another long drag on the cigarette. “Don’t ask me, you were the one who called for me to be here.” Sherlock sends Not John a glare and simply earns himself raised eyebrows as he sits down in his chair. Sherlock tucks his feet underneath himself, suddenly colder than he has been in ages. He watches not John for a moment and realises all the little details that he has gotten wrong before; the slightly faded colour of his jean cuffs and the scuffs on his knuckles from one too many fights in alleys at the end of a case. Sherlock wonders how he ever managed to trick himself into believing that this John was real. “Oh don’t be like that,” The look that Not John sends him makes Sherlock’s stomach roll. “You created me. In his image. If you can’t even get that right then how the hell can you call yourself my friend?” The words are hissed and they fall onto Sherlock’s skin like paper cuts, splitting open his veins until they bury in his lungs. 

He has to remind himself to breathe. 

“Vous n'êtes pas réel.” Says Sherlock, then he braces his arms against the window, and stubs out the cigarette. 

Not John shrugs. “No, I’m not. But I am all you have left.” Sherlock concedes it. “If you’re going to admit that you’re in love with me, don’t do it to a ghost. Find him, find the real me and let him know how you feel.”

Sherlock can’t deny it. The plan is fool proof. Apart from John’s inevitable realisation that Sherlock is in fact gay, that John is in fact not, and the disgust that will ensue. Sherlock never wants to see that look on John Watson’s face ever again. “I know I’ve no right to feel it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t.” 

Not John nods into his cup. “Precisely.”

It takes him a second, but Sherlock finally takes him in properly and addresses the hallucination as if he is real. “John Watson.” He raises an eyebrow. “You are a marvel sometimes.” 

Not John laughs and the sound makes Sherlock’s stomach roll. “Of course I am, I have to put up with you all the time.” 

Sherlock glares. “That doesn’t count.” 

“Oh it very much does.” There is beat, and then Not John is squinting at him. “Jesus, you look terrible.” 

Sherlock clenches his fist and tries not to lose his temper, because Not John is getting a kick out of it. “Honestly, John-“

“Don’t you ‘honestly John’ me!” Not John glares at him and Sherlock rolls his eyes so that they sink back into his skull. 

“I don’t need looking after.” Sherlock mutters, because somewhere in his brain he thinks he does. That’s why his brain suggested John, that’s why it suggested a Doctor.

Not John lays his ankle over his opposite knee and watches him carefully. “Yes you do. You think you don’t but you do.” His eyes are glinting and Sherlock pushes his knuckles against the cold glass to stop himself from looking away. “Your body is so fragile Sherlock. It seems a shame really, all that brain in such a useless transport.” He leans forward so that his forearms are resting on his knees and Sherlock can’t see his tea cup. “Is that why you’re so intent on destroying it?” 

This John is absolutely terrifying. Sherlock wonders, for a moment, if his eyes are really that dark or if it’s just his head and when they shift, he shivers. “I feel as if I have made a mistake, John. Letting you go. I’ve given away my unimaginable happiness.” 

Not John lets out another snort so Sherlock looks down at his hands. “Of course you have, but it’s not too late, you know. You can always call me.” Not John smiles over his tea cup. “I do have a phone.” Sherlock glares at the man. 

“It won’t be long. We’ll figure everything out in our time.” Sherlock forces the words out all at once, not that he could have stopped them if he tried. Not John stills and winces, arms drawn into his chest. Sherlock’s head falls to the window with a soft thump and he lets out a shaky sigh. There is a moment where the room falls silent, and Sherlock just watches the cars outside for a while. 

“Don’t be an idiot, Sherlock. It’s going to be the rest of our lives.” Then the room falls silent, and when Sherlock turns again, the seat is empty and the only sound is the soft ticking of his wristwatch.  
\-----------

Sherlock jumps the second a taxi door slams outside of Baker Street. He nearly falls out of his small perch on the windowsill and looks down in time to see an umbrella disappear under the door. He dismisses the idea of Mycroft because there is no way in hell that his brother will ever take a cab, and his brain flits through hundreds of options until whoever it is begins up the stairs and Sherlock worries that he’ll faint. 

Because John is home.

The Doctor steps through the door and sniffs loudly in his direction, cringing. “Christ, Sherlock, you smoke a whole pack or something?” Then he shakes off the umbrella and ruffles a hand through his hair. 

“John,” He whispers, and then Sherlock stands, his knees groaning at the effort, and has to hold onto the chair beside him to make sure that he doesn’t fall over. The smile that John sends him is so vulnerable, so unlike Not John that Sherlock wants to cry. Instead, he nods as if he was expecting him to come back and nods to the umbrella, under which a small puddle had formed. “Your umbrella is still wet.” 

John looks down as if he has no idea what Sherlock is talking about then blubbers, pulling it up so that it drips on his foot rather than the floor. Sherlock doesn’t really understand that, the floor is still going to get wet but John clearly feels that this is the better option, so Sherlock doesn’t question it anymore. “Of course, yeah. Still hasn’t stopped raining.” John smiles as if this will be news to Sherlock, who simply nods. The room becomes thick and John coughs once, eyes downcast. “You probably want to know what I’m doing here.” 

“That would be helpful, yes.” 

“I’m leaving her.” He says it quietly but Sherlock hears it anyway. 

“Mary.” 

John rolls his eyes. “Yes Mary.” 

Sherlock stills for a moment because none of it makes sense. John being here when he is supposed to be on the other side of London and the fact that he is here to see Sherlock. He is here to tell Sherlock that he is leaving his wife. “Why on earth would you do something like that?” Sherlock sounds more affronted than he means to, but John just rolls his eyes. 

“Because I love her, but she’s not the woman that I want to spend the rest of my life with.” 

How did he not notice? Sherlock spent every moment with John and he honestly did not notice that he had been having an affair. When Sherlock met John’s eyes again, they shimmered in the darker colour before the air cleared and Sherlock let out a long breath. “Oh.”

John rubbed at the back of his neck and let out an awkward chuckle. “Yeah.” 

“Who is it?” Sherlock asks, and John snorts until he sees his eyes. Then his smile falls and he just blinks. 

“Hang on; what do you think I’m on about?” John looks concerned which only adds to Sherlock’s confusion. 

“You’re having an affair, correct? That makes sense seeing as-“ 

He is cut off by John barking out a laugh, a loud one that fills his ears and makes him feel dizzy. He waits a moment for John to finish and opens his mouth when John straightens again, only for him to double over, wheezing against the doorframe. 

 

Sherlock had absolutely no idea what is going on. 

“Oh bloody hell, Sherlock,” John stumbles out between puffs of laughter, wiping at his eyes. “I’m not having an affair, Sherlock.” It takes a second for him to gather himself, and then he stares Sherlock straight in the eye and nods. “You remember, the day after we met when I shot the cabbie for you?” Sherlock nods silently. “Why do you think that was?” 

Sherlock frowns. “Your natural instincts as both a doctor and a soldier led you to save me; your help was invaluable that night.” 

John tightens his grip on the umbrella and makes a noise. “And you remember, at your graveside, you remember when I told you that I owed you everything?” If Sherlock remembers correctly, he had said something else entirely by John clearly has a point and Sherlock doesn’t want to dance around it any longer. “Do you know why that is, Sherlock?” 

The realisation hits Sherlock like a brick. He stumbles back from the door and onto the arm of John’s chair, eyes wide whilst he thinks. John chuckles lightly and follows him across the room from the door. “John-“ Sherlock whispers and he thinks that he might be crying, but he can’t really tell. John stands in front of him and takes his face into his warm hands, rubbing his thumbs across Sherlock’s cheeks. 

“Is that okay?” John asks, and of course it is. Everything is okay. Because John is here, standing in front of Sherlock, and Sherlock wonders if this is the closest he’ll ever get to complete understanding. 

So when Sherlock nods and John kisses him, Sherlock’s mind flashes with one final thought. 

He’s found his unimaginable happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, that was cliched.


End file.
